


Without His Smile

by kwhyloren



Series: "Look Only At Me" verse fics [2]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:32:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwhyloren/pseuds/kwhyloren
Summary: It's been months since the incident, and MC is still recovering emotionally. Zen feels responsible for what happened and has been taking care of her.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **PLEASE READ!!**
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> This is the sequel to my other fic, ["Look Only At Me"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8298638). If you haven't read that yet, I suggest you do, otherwise this story won't make a lot of sense! :) I'm so glad I got the feedback I did on that fic and someone asked me if I could do a sequel and I realized that was something I _really_ wanted to write so here it is!!
> 
> This will also be posted on my tumblr account, [yoosunging](yoosunging.tumblr.com).

It’s the slow, lazy mornings like these when the sun’s rays creep up your covers and dance across your closed eyes that you miss him the most. You two used to lay there, not wanting to move and get on with the day and hold each other, murmuring drowsily about the night’s dreams and thoughts...and of how much you love each other. Mornings like these, you almost forget he’s gone. You turn over and move towards where he sleeps, arm reaching to wrap around his waist so you can cuddle closer and feel his comforting warmth, but your hand touches empty air, then lands on the cold mattress. It’s then that it hits you, and you remember. The scars on your stomach ache with the memory and the gaping void in your heart is back again, swallowing any happiness the morning might have brought with it.

 

You open your eyes and gaze at the empty place where he used to lay; his pillow still has a small imprint in it where he rested his head, and his glasses still sit on the bedside table, staring at you. One of the lenses is cracked from the time you flung them angrily in a fit of miserable rage at the wall. You had been so angry at him for leaving you, so upset that he was no longer there, but the moment you saw his glasses lying there on the floor where they landed, you instantly regretted throwing them. That day, you spent an hour huddled against the wall, clutching the glasses to your chest. They were  _ his _ . You wouldn’t ruin them.

 

With a small, shaky sigh, you move yourself to his side of the bed, curling into a ball and burying your face in his pillow. It still smells of him, but barely. He’s been gone for almost four months and his scent won’t last much longer. Little by little, he’s disappearing completely from your life, and you cling tighter to his memory, unwilling to let go. It’s unhealthy, the way you’re living, but you don’t care.

 

The noise of a door shutting in the living room reaches your ears and your heart soars for a moment, as it always does. There’s always a part of you that thinks maybe he’s away at work and any moment he’ll come into the bedroom and greet you with that sweet, loving smile and crawl onto the bed to hold you close. As the footsteps approach, you brace yourself for disappointment, and it comes, rushing over you like a wave, and you can’t help but frown.

 

Zen stands in the doorway, several grocery bags hanging at his sides. You know he’s seen your frown because there’s the same hurt in his eyes as always. He knows he’s in Yoosung’s shadow, and he knows he’s not entirely wanted. His expression changes to one of concern.

 

“You’re still in bed? It’s well past noon.” he remains in the doorway, keeping his distance.

 

You shrug under the covers and retreat slightly under them, not wanting to be bothered.

 

“Have you eaten at all yet?”

 

“No.” your voice is muffled, but he hears you anyway. He’s become accustomed to it, you imagine.

 

“_____. You can’t do this. You have to take care of yourself.”

 

He sounds tired, exasperated. Who wouldn’t be? You’ve done nothing but wallow in misery and lock yourself up in the house that used to comfort you and bring you joy. It’s a hollow shell now, just a place to stay, with a memory in every room. Sometimes you feel the knife still embedded in your gut. Sometimes you wish it would have ended you, or that you would have the sense to end yourself. It’s sad, how many times it’s crossed your mind. If it weren’t for Zen constantly checking in on you, by now you would have starved to death. Or maybe not, starving was not your first option. Your first idea was to go the way he did, with a knife to the chest. You wanted to punish yourself for what happened. You wanted to feel what he felt and die like he died.

 

But you never went through with it. Every time you considered it, you could see Yoosung in your mind’s eye, frowning and pleading with you, eyes filled with tears.  _ Live _ , he’d say.  _ Please, for me. _ Then you’d feel guilty that you even thought about ending it. He had wanted you to live, to get better...to be  _ happy _ . Your happiness seemed to be light years away, though. He took that with him when he left and you had no idea how to get it back.

 

Zen shifts awkwardly in the doorway and you realize he’s been waiting for you to say something. The moment has passed, though, so you remain quiet.

 

“I bought you more groceries. These should get you through the next few days...I’ll put them away in the kitchen.” he pauses, and you feel his eyes on you. “You should get dressed. I’ll make you some lunch and you can meet me in the kitchen, okay?”

 

There’s a silence and you know he’s waiting for an answer, or any indication that you’ve heard him. You feel bad that he’s doing all this for you; he blames himself for Yoosung’s death, you know. Slowly, you poke your head out from under the comforter to look at him. His expression is still worried.

 

“Okay.”

 

There’s a ghost of a smile on his lips, but it’s sad, and gone in a moment.

 

“Okay,” he repeats before turning to head to the kitchen. You hear him set the bags down a minute later and you linger in the bed just a little longer, reluctant to leave your memories.

 

Your stomach growls and you suddenly notice the extent of your hunger. You finally pull yourself from under the covers and drag yourself off of the bed. As you stand, you stretch for a moment, then head for your dresser. You get dressed in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt-- one of Yoosung’s --your favorite outfit choice nowadays. On the way to the door, you pass the mirror and pause, looking at yourself for the first time in a few days. Your hair is an absolute mess, sticking out randomly in places and tangled. There’s dark circles under your eyes, which is more from your unhealthy eating habits rather than lack of sleep. All you do is sleep when Zen isn’t around. When he shows up, he makes you get up and walk around and eat. You reach your hands up to pat down your hair and smooth it out, trying to get it at least a little less unruly. It pains Zen to see you so messed up, and it hurts you to know that you do nothing but worry him. It would be fine if it was just you, wasting away within the empty walls of your lonely home, but you had too many people who cared about you, and they were always concerned, always asking.

 

They all visited you at the hospital afterward. Some of them cried with you, some of them did their crying on their own, you imagined. Their visits barely helped. Mostly it just reminded you of the good times you all used to have, back when Yoosung was alive-- back when you all had only just met. Each of them tried to help you in their own way. Jaehee would visit you on her lunch breaks, Seven drove you places and told you old stories about your late husband that made you almost laugh, almost smile. Jumin’s help didn’t come till later, when you lost your job because you stopped caring to go and the bills on the counter grew. You could no longer afford the monthly payments to remain living in the house, so Jumin stepped in and offered to keep paying until you found your bearings. And Zen…

 

_ Zen _ . You glance towards the doorway, still hearing the faint noises of him moving things around in the kitchen. It feels eerily familiar. Noise in the kitchen, you leaving the room and going to investigate, Yoosung losing his mind, Yoosung stabbing you, stabbing himself, bleeding, gasping,  _ dying _ …

 

You reach out to grip the bedpost, steadying yourself. Warm tears slip down your cheeks and you try to think of something else,  _ anything _ else to pull yourself together. You don’t want to break down in front of Zen, not again. He’s already been through enough for you. Slowly, you start to feel the fear and anxiety brought on by the memories of what happened that dreadful morning dissipate. You take deep breaths and close your eyes, bringing up your other hand to wipe the tears away.  _ Breathe _ , you tell yourself.  _ Just breathe and calm down. _

 

It takes you a moment, but you feel composed enough to head out of the room and toward the kitchen. The familiar smell of ramen noodles wafts through the air and soothes your senses. Your stomach growls again, impatient. Zen sighs in relief when he sees you walk in and plop down at the table.

 

“For a minute there, I thought you weren't coming,” he says, stirring the pot of ramen. You sniffle slightly, nose still a little stuffy from your crying.

 

“Sorry.”

 

He frowns, but doesn't ask why your nose is running or why your eyes are red and puffy. It's an answer he already knows. The room is quiet again and he clears his throat awkwardly.

 

“Ramen is okay, right? You've had it a lot lately but...it seems to be one of the only things you like.”

 

“Yeah. It's fine,” you shift in your seat slightly, then sigh, resting your head on your hand, eyes closing.

 

For a moment, you imagine that it's Yoosung cooking you lunch. He'll smile brightly and give you a kiss on the cheek when he gives you your food. Then he'll plop down in the seat across from you and watch your expression, eager to see if you like it. You're almost smiling now, but Zen's voice breaks the spell.

 

“The others have been asking how you're doing. They're worried since you haven't kept in touch...when's the last time you spoke to anyone besides me?” There's that worried tone again.

 

“Hospital,” you sound annoyed, and you are.

 

You hear him stop stirring. “It's been that long?”

 

His tone makes you feel guilty, but you swallow the sadness rising in your throat with a gulp. “Yes.”

 

“No messages or anything? Or calls? I know that you haven't been on the messenger but...I guess I assumed you would still be talking to them outside of it.”

 

You shrug, “I didn't want to deal with it.”

 

“You don't want to deal with your friends?” he sounds confused, and it's only right. It wouldn't make sense to anyone but you.

 

“No. They only worry and ask me too many questions,” your voice gets quieter, “and everyone reminds me of him.”

 

He’s quiet for a second, then lets out a small sigh, “We worry and ask questions because we care about you, ____. And...everything reminds you of him. You just have to take it in stride.”

 

Your eyes fly open and you look at him, surprised, and a little bit angry.

 

“It's not that simple,” you can hear the venom in your tone, “You think I can just shake his memory off? Just like that?”

 

He pours the ramen into a bowl, expression pained. “You know I didn't mean it like that. Of course it won't be that easy or quick. I just meant...you shouldn't shy away from us because we make you think of him. Did you ever think how hard it is for us too…? We lost a good friend and now it seems like we'll lose you too.”

 

You bite your lip, a new ache of pain in your chest. The void inside of you seems to grow a little, but you think you understand what he's getting at.

 

“Being with people who care about you can help ease the pain,” he continues, picking up the bowl and bringing it over to place it in front of you on the table. “We just want to help.”

 

For some reason, you can’t bring yourself to look at him. Instead, your eyes stare at the noodles in the bowl. His words roll around in your head, repeating. Each time your heart feels heavier. They just want to help. For months, they just wanted to help you, but you pushed them away. All the calls, all the messages. You only let Zen help because you knew the moment you saw him, after everything had gone to shit, that he blamed himself. You’d never even told him all of it. All he knew was that him messaging you had somehow started it, and that was enough. Enough for him to visit almost every day with food, and a concerned voice-- ready to talk if you need to, but you never needed to. At least, that’s what you tell him. Talking about it seems scary. Talking about it makes it more real.

 

You don’t even notice that you’re crying until a sob leaves you. The noise startles you almost, and you want to scold yourself for breaking so easily, but suddenly everything  _ hurts _ . Your chest aches, the pain of memory and guilt gathering there and making it feel heavy. Some of your tears fall with a soft plop into your ramen and your hands move to grip your knees, needing something to hold onto. Moments like these, you crave his embrace, and knowing you’ll never have it again makes it hurt all the worse.

 

Zen’s at your side in seconds, pulling the other chair close to yours and sitting there, reaching to touch your shoulder.

 

“Hey...hey, ____. Did I say something wrong?” His voice is quiet, distressed.

 

“N-No…” you manage to choke out. The way the two of you are sitting reminds you all too well of the day you lost everything.

 

_ Did you realize your mistake? _

 

You didn’t help him when you should have. You ignored the warning signs. You told yourself it was nothing to worry about; it was just insecurity, he’d be okay eventually. You let his unhealthy jealousy fester until it ruined him and left him a bleeding mess in your arms. You didn’t cherish him enough. Those were your mistakes. All of it is your fault.

 

“____…” he sounds pained, his grip on your shoulder tightening slightly.

 

You’re shaking, nails digging into your knees, heart ripping itself to shreds. You finally look at him, his image blurred through the streams of tears coming from your eyes. He’s looking at you, eyebrows furrowed, frowning. His mouth opens, and he looks like he wants to say something, but he just sighs and looks helpless. Your eyes close and you bow your head slightly, sobbing so hard that you only breathe through small hiccups of air in between. You feel his hand move from your shoulder to your back and begin to rub it in slow, soothing strokes. You’re coming undone. It’s happened before, but somehow it’s never felt this bad-- each time it happens, it’s worse. Each time you feel like it will be the last time because it hurts so much you just might die.

 

“I-I...it w-was…” you gasp between sobs, “M-my fault...all my f-fault…”

 

“No, no...hey, _____, don’t talk like that,” his voice is strained, and you can tell he’s close to crying too. “It’s not your fault. Listen to me, it’s not.”

 

You’re sniffling and whimpering like a kicked animal; you don’t understand how he could say that. Of course it’s your fault. Of course.

 

“I-It is…”

 

“No. Stop this right now, you can’t do this to yourself,” he pauses and exhales shakily, “Fuck. If it’s anyone’s fault at all, it’s mine.”

 

You shake your head and open your eyes, turning your gaze to look at him again. His expression is set and his eyes are watery.

 

“Z-Zen, no…it’s not--”

 

“How is it not? If I wouldn’t have been on the messenger looking for attention, you wouldn’t have messaged me. Yoosung would be alive if it weren’t for that.” He sounds distressed and resentful, furious at himself.

 

You had thought the same thing during the weeks after it happened. During those days, you couldn’t even look at Zen or hear his voice without becoming bitter and angry. Once the dust settled and you had time to think, though, you realized. It wasn’t his fault at all. He did nothing wrong, Yoosung only thought he did. And so did you. Your hand absentmindedly moves to touch your stomach, where your scars sit underneath the fabric of your shirt. He notices.

 

“If it weren’t for me...you’d be happy, _____. He’d be sitting here instead of me, and you wouldn’t have gotten hurt.”

 

Your fingers curl, gripping your shirt, and you try to put the words together in your head. You know how you feel, but you just don’t know how to say it. He’s wrong, you know it, but he doesn’t know what you know.  _ Maybe he needs to _ , you think, heart aching. _ It’s the only way he’ll be able to stop blaming himself. _

 

“Y-You’re wrong…” your voice is hoarse, and your throat is burning, but you have to tell him. You can’t continue keeping everything inside of yourself; it’s killing you.

 

His eyebrows furrow and something in his eyes tells you he knows there’s something you haven’t been telling him. There’s curiosity there, but also fear. You’re scared too. You know once it all comes out, he’ll see that Yoosung’s death was really your fault, and he’ll hate you as much as you hate yourself. Your lungs stutter out a few deep breaths, and you try to compose yourself enough so you can actually speak. He waits patiently, the hand he placed on your back sitting still there, unmoving. It’s comforting, but barely.

 

“He was...ill before that. W-We had fought a few times about m-me talking with other guys--”

 

“Wait. You two...fought? I never even...I can’t imagine that.” His eyes are wide and he looks confused. 

 

You don’t blame him; the first time Yoosung and you fought,  _ actually _ fought, you were shaken up. It wasn’t just some dumb argument about doing the dishes or who misplaced the television remote, it was harsh and hurtful, and left you both sitting on opposite ends of the couch, silent and stung by the other’s words. The first time he went off on you about talking to guys was a little over a year ago. Before that, he’d only look jealous or disgruntled. He’d hold your hand a little tighter, keep you a little closer. When it turned into yelling, you brushed it off as him being overly protective. You thought it was just that stress from his workplace was just putting him more on edge than usual. The signs that he wasn’t quite himself were there, you just decided to ignore them and think that he’d get better on his own. That was your mistake. That was your downfall.

 

“Yes...we fought,” you sniffle and wipe the back of your hand over your eyes. It comes away wet with tears. “He wasn’t...himself, Zen. He wasn’t f-for a while.”

 

“What do you mean? Was he aggressive before the accident?”

 

You nod, letting out a shaky breath. “About a year ago h-he started getting bad. He would go off on me for even looking at another guy in a certain w-way. It was...worse if I messaged you, Seven, or Jumin. He even y-yelled at me for talking to V once.”

 

“Holy shit…” his hand drops from your back and he moves it to run it through his hair, pushing some stray strands from his face. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

 

“I didn’t...want all of you to think differently of him. I thought that...it was j-just the stress of his job making him crazy. But...what I was really doing was ignoring the facts…”

 

“So he just...got angrier and more jealous until it finally drove him to the edge? Jesus Christ…”

 

“Y-Yeah...and I ignored all of the signs. That’s why it’s...it’s all my fault. If I had taken him to get h-help...he’d be alive. We would have made it through his illness together.” 

 

Zen’s quiet for a while, eyes looking at you, searching. You can’t read his expression, and your heart sinks, knowing you’ve gone and driven him away. He’ll probably stop coming over to help you and you’ll finally be completely alone with nothing but your own hateful thoughts. You’ve dug your own grave. He sighs.

 

“Honestly, _____...I don’t think any of us could have known he would get  _ that _ bad. Not even you-- no,  _ especially _ you.” The sincerity in his voice scares you. You don’t understand. Why isn’t he mad?  _ Why is he trying to defend you? _

 

“I-I don’t...what do you mean?”

 

He sits back in the chair, letting out another long sigh. His arms fold across his chest and he looks like he’s trying to figure something out. You wait for his answer. Time moves too slow. It’s excruciating.

 

“I mean that...you loved him. When you love someone you want to try and think the best of them, no matter what, right?”

 

“R-Right…but I don’t get how--”

 

“_____. You believed he’d get better. You knew him and in your mind you thought that the Yoosung you knew could never get that bad or do something like he did. Maybe you would have been right. Whether or not you helped him didn’t matter. He had to fight his own demons and...he lost.” He lets his arms fall to his sides and he leans forward again, meeting your eyes with concern. “It’s not your fault. Okay? It’s not.”

 

You’re staring at him wide-eyed, speechless. In your mind, there’s a turmoil of thoughts and emotions, clashing against each other and making you feel strange. A memory comes to mind and you let it play out in your head. Yoosung’s crying, curled up in the covers of the bed. You hold him close to you, rubbing his back, whispering that it will be okay, that you’re there for him and that you’ll never stop being there for him. You remember making him hot chocolate and curling up under blankets on the couch to comfort him when he lost a patient at the veterinary clinic. You held his hands and peppered his face with kisses when he’d wake up in the middle of the night after a nightmare, terrified he’d lose you somehow.

 

Yoosung fought his demons, and you were there fighting with him. Since he died, all you’ve thought about was the negatives. You thought about how mean you had been and how you didn’t get him help. It was rare that a good memory came to you; most times, the good ones would be interrupted by your thoughts of self-hatred. Somewhere in all the grief and pain, you lost sight of what was  _ good _ .

 

_ I...loved you. Remember that. Not...this. _

 

You close your eyes and you can almost  _ feel _ him. A flood of new memories hit you, and they’re happy ones. Food fights in the kitchen. Relentless tickling on the couch. Laughing so hard you cry. His laugh making your heart soar. Kisses on your nose because he liked the way it made you giggle. The mess of a cake he made you for your birthday. The love in his eyes when he watched you walk down the aisle. How he always held you close after being intimate, trembling and sighing. Lazy mornings when neither of you wanted to get up, so you’d just talk. The warm feeling you’d get every time he told you he loved you. And he did, he loved you.

 

“It’s not your fault,” his voice breaks you out of the past. He moves his hand to your back again, rubbing. “Say it with me, okay? It’s not your fault.”

 

“It’s...not my fault,” your voice is so quiet, even you can barely hear it.

 

“It’s not your fault.”

 

You clear your throat and open your mouth to say it louder, but you feel like if you say it, you’ll break down again.

 

“_____,” his tone is firm, but compassionate. “Say it.”

 

“It’s not my fault.”

 

A sad smile graces his lips. “Believe that, okay? Don’t lock yourself up and punish yourself for something you couldn’t have controlled.”

 

Your lower lip quivers, throat tight with tears. “O-Okay.”

 

His smile widens and suddenly you’re crying again. Not because you’re sad, but because you’re just so damn  _ grateful _ . While you were hiding yourself away in this house of bittersweet memories, your friends were worrying for you and wanting to help you get better.

 

“What’s wrong?” he’s worried again, and you can’t help but smile just a little.

 

“Th-thank you,” you manage to get out between the small hiccups of sobs, “ _ thank you… _ ”

 

He looks relieved, and a little bit misty-eyed. “Of course. We care about you. We never stopped. And...when you decide you feel up to being with all of us again, just say the word.”

 

You nod, giving him a weak smile. It may be another few weeks until you’re ready to see everyone again, but promise yourself you will. Yoosung wouldn’t want you to lock yourself up like you had been, and they were still your friends. You sniffle to clear your stuffy nose and the aroma of the ramen makes its way through somehow.

 

“O-Oh…” you look down at the bowl in front of you, remembering, “it’s probably cold now…I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine. I’m glad we had this talk, I can just heat it up again for you.” 

 

His hand reaches to pick up the bowl and he stands, giving you a small smile before heading towards the microwave. You watch him, thinking about how hard he’s been working lately in order to keep up with you. It makes you upset, knowing you’ve made his life that much harder. You don’t want to be that way anymore. You want to start doing more for yourself and start caring more about whether or not you wake up in the morning. You want to...but it’s hard. Every time you feel motivated, it’s fleeting, and gone so soon that you just never go through with it. Your fingers mess with the chopsticks absentmindedly. Maybe you would just have to take the plunge.

  
  


***

 

Zen helps you out of the car, holding out his open hand.

 

“I can take that bag for you, ____,” he says, then glances toward the house. “You should head inside.”

 

You nod and hand him your overnight bag from your stay at Jaehee’s. She insisted on letting you stay while the details on your new place were being finalized, rather than pay to stay in a hotel. The others had insisted on helping you move in, and even went as far as to unpack all of the boxes for you so you wouldn’t have to worry. Jumin had apparently done all the directing, bringing a few of his bodyguards to help out. Zen had complained to you on the phone, and you laughed a little, apologizing to him for his troubles. It was scary, moving out of the house Yoosung and you had bought together, and very painful. You put off for the longest time, telling yourself that you’d start the selling process tomorrow, or next week-- or next month. Then you had a breakdown on the living room floor after you tripped over his vet books again, triggering a slew of memories you didn’t want to remember. There were too many memories in those walls. It was time to let it go.

 

After it sold, you spent one last hour roaming the halls, taking in the bare rooms. It was a skeleton, and you realized the house was just that: a house. What made it a home was dead and gone, and you had to move on. You sold most of the stuff, wanting to start new. There were a some things you kept, of course: his glasses, a few of his shirts plus a hoodie, a couple of his cooking supplies he had taught you how to work with, his laptop and headphones, the photo albums you made with him, his favorite shoujo manga, and the large comfy chair you both used to cuddle on. The rest was elsewhere, being used by other people. It was comforting in a way, almost like he was in more than one place, spreading his sunshine.

 

So here you are. Standing in front of your new house. It’s not much-- only one floor, bedroom, and bathroom. The kitchen is rather small, but cozy, and you like it despite Zen’s concerns. Yoosung was the one who liked space to cook, you tell him. You’re fine with less. Taking a deep breath, you start toward the front door, eyes widening as you open it.

 

“Welcome home, ____!” A chorus of familiar voices greets you.

 

Zen appears in the doorway behind you, grinning, your bag in hand. “Surprise!”

 

You take a moment to glance around, unable to speak. There’s a handmade banner hanging on the small archway that leads into the kitchen. ‘Welcome Home’ is painted on in bright colors, multi-colored streamers cascading like a waterfall from the bottom. There’s a couple stray balloons weighted to the ground. They’re purple-- your favorite. Your eyes move to the forms of your friends.

 

Seven’s leaning against the wall, hands shoved in his hoodie’s pockets; he gives you a weak smile when he sees you looking. Jumin’s holding an empty wine glass, a full bottle in the other with a little red bow tied around it-- a housewarming gift. Jaehee’s smiling brightly, looking a little flushed; she must have rushed over soon after you left her house to be here when you first walked in. Zen’s now beside you, grinning.

 

“E-Everyone, this is…” you start, trying to hold back the tears, “I’m so happy...thank you.”

 

“Why don’t you take a look around?” Zen suggests.

 

“I could give a tour. I helped arrange most of the layout,” Jumin sets the glass and bottle he’s holding down on the coffee table. Zen’s eye twitches.

 

“No, that’s a stupid idea. It’s her house. Let her look around herself without a tour.” He crosses his arms. Jumin glares.

 

Jaehee sighs, exasperated, but you’re already laughing a little. You had missed this. You had missed  _ them _ .

 

“How about you all give me a tour?” You speak up, smiling slightly.

 

Seven removes himself from against the wall. “Sounds good to me!”

 

Jumin nods a little, and Zen looks less pissed off.

 

“Lead the way, ____,” Jaehee motions with her hand.

 

You take a deep breath and start to walk. Each room brings a new feeling, and with each room, you feel like the weight on your heart gets a little lighter. Your friends excitedly point out which items they picked out or arranged. The kitchen almost brings you to tears. All the utensils that were Yoosung’s are arranged nicely in a holder on the counter. Jumin brings the wine in and you all have a drink, except for Seven, who gladly toasts you with a glass of fruit juice. There’s laughter and storytelling, mostly memories of Yoosung. You laugh so hard you end up on the floor when Seven reminds you about the time he convinced the poor boy to chug endless cartons of chocolate milk. It seems like a million years ago, but it also feels just like yesterday.

 

It goes on for hours, the reminiscing and catching up. You end up playing a game of charades, which is hilarious because Jumin can’t act for shit. He ends up quitting, retiring to the couch to have another glass of wine. Seven takes his place on Jaehee’s team, but you and Zen still end up winning. When dinner hits, you order pizza. You all sit in the living room and eat, having off-the-wall conversations and commenting on the food’s flavor.

 

Once the food’s done, they begin to leave one by one. Seven’s first-- he’s been away from work long enough for one day, he says. He gives you a weak squeeze of a hug before walking out the door. Jumin’s next, then Jaehee. He’s getting back to work and, of course, she has to go too. You give them both a quick hug and wish Jaehee the best of luck. Zen’s last. He helps you clean up the empty glasses and pizza plates.

 

“Are you gonna be okay?” He asks when it’s time for him to go.

 

“Of course. I’m home.”

 

He smiles at that and gives you a lingering hug. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

 

“Thank you. I know I say it a lot, but I don’t think I could ever say it enough.”

 

Zen pulls away, smiling gently. “You’re welcome. If you need me, I’m just a call away, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

You watch him drive away on his motorcycle, then head into the house, closing the door. It’s silent and you’re completely alone, but the memories of the day you and your friends shared here brighten the rooms. For the first time in a long time, you think you’ll be okay. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. 

 

_ I loved you, remember that… _

 

You do remember, and you loved him too. You love him still. 

 

You curl up on the chair you two used to sit in and wrap yourself in a blanket, leaning your cheek against the soft fabric. It’s familiar, and comforting, and as you drift off to sleep, you think you hear his voice again, low and gentle.

 

_ Be happy, _____. Please. _

 

_ I will _ , you promise.

 

_ I will. _


End file.
